


Polemos

by manic_intent



Series: Polemos [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied and referenced institutionalised child abuse (Sparta...), M/M, That AU where Brasidas finds Deimos when Deimos is still a child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 16:55:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17450807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: Brasidas found the boy dangling on a ledge against a sheer cliff, head cushioned on his hands. “Look at that,” Deimos said, pointing.Above, an eagle was feeding its mate. They had built a nest further up on a cliff, an unlovely construction of dried sticks. Offering deposited, the eagle launched itself back into space. “I see them,” Brasidas said, swallowing his temper.“They fall off mountains and into the sky,” Deimos said. He reached toward the ascending eagle, hand outstretched. “If the Gods love us, why did they make us in their image? They should have given us wings.”





	Polemos

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Polemos](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17499776) by [Vcczl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vcczl/pseuds/Vcczl)



> Spartans actually had a culture of institutionalised pederasty, which is probably what Stentor would have been to Nikolaos irl *cough*, but since the game completely sidestepped that altogether I’m going to for this story as well, if only to avoid the underage tag. 
> 
> **Disclaimer** : I’m not a historian, and history was one of my worst subjects in high school, so having to read an eye-bleeding number of timeline events for this fic already hurt my head. If any details are wrong, welp, I’ve tried.

Brasidas found the boy dangling on a ledge against a sheer cliff, head cushioned on his hands. “Look at that,” Deimos said, pointing. 

Above, an eagle was feeding its mate. They had built a nest further up on a cliff, an unlovely construction of dried sticks. Offering deposited, the eagle launched itself back into space. “I see them,” Brasidas said, swallowing his temper. 

“They fall off mountains and into the sky,” Deimos said. He reached toward the ascending eagle, hand outstretched. “If the Gods love us, why did they make us in their image? They should have given us wings.” 

“The Gods don’t love people in general.” Life had taught Brasidas this much. It was too ugly and too unpredictable and too beautiful to be the work of any loving God. “Those few whom they do often suffer for it.” 

Deimos glanced over the edge and down at Brasidas. His smile was sharp, his eyes too hard and dark for his age. “This is why I like you,” Deimos said. He sat up, kicking his sandalled feet against stone. “You don’t bother lying to children.” 

“I’m glad that you’ve deigned to like me,” Brasidas said, unable to keep the amusement from his voice. The strange child he had found cornered by a lioness in Argolis had been hostile for weeks, then inscrutable afterward. “You should be at the agoge.”

“That’s for Spartan children.” Deimos pushed himself off the ledge. Brasidas started forward instinctively, but Deimos arrested his fall with prehensile grace, grabbing for another ledge before dropping lightly to the ground. 

“You’re as good as any of them. And I’ve spoken for you.” Even though Brasidas was currently serving as a polemarch, the fact that Deimos _did_ have a Spartan-like instinct for a fight had worked the most in his favour. 

Deimos snorted. “I’m better than them. What’s the point of training with them?” 

Had a Spartan child taken such a tone with Brasidas, he would have rebuked them. Reported the matter to their appointed eiren. Deimos had no one, heeded no one. That was the problem. The lioness that Brasidas had killed near Argos to save him had killed not only another child but a couple of other people. Deimos had laughed when Brasidas had asked gently if any of the adults had been his parents. It was a sound so bitter that Brasidas had said nothing else and worse, had given into impulse and taken Deimos away with him. Later he’d understood, when Deimos had disrobed to wash in a creek. Across the boy’s back were writ terrible scars, some old, some new, all from torture. 

Brasidas had to be patient. “It is the Spartan way.” 

“I’m not Spartan,” Deimos said. He walked over to Brasidas, each step balanced and considered. A warrior’s grace, wary of attack. He walked everywhere like this. Even with Brasidas. “Back home?” 

“You should be punished,” Brasidas said, resigned. 

Deimos shrugged. “Fine. What do you want to break?”

“What?”

“A finger? An arm?” Deimos yawned. “I’ve long stopped crying over things like that. Just get it over with and let’s go home. Or do you want to strand me out here for a few days as you people do with the other children? Unlike them, I won’t starve.” 

“Deimos.” Brasidas went down on a knee, bringing him near eye-level with the boy. This close, Deimos’ hard-eyed stare was even more unsettling. It was pitiless, the look of a warrior forged by time and war. Of those who had been broken by it, forgetting their humanity. “I didn’t say that you _were_ going to be punished. Only that you should be.”

Deimos cocked his head. With his cold stare, he looked unsettlingly like one of the eagles he’d just been admiring. “What then?”

“The things that were done to you before...” Brasidas trailed off. 

“Ah, that. It’s not that much different from the agoge. There was just more of it. At an earlier age. All the better for me to grow indifferent.” Deimos’ voice was mocking again. 

“That is not the way of the agoge.” 

“How not? I’ve seen children pitted against wolves. Beatings, cuttings, starvation.”

“It isn’t cruelty for cruelty’s sake.” 

“Neither was mine. Or so I was told. Just like the other children. Just like you were. The only difference is that I don’t believe it.” Deimos assumed an expression of boredom. “Are we done, then?” 

“You laughed when I asked where your parents were,” Brasidas said carefully. “Are they dead?” 

“I don’t know. Why does it matter?”

“Perhaps you should be returned to them,” Brasidas said. He’d been considering this now and then. His work as a polemarch meant he had little time for much else, especially since Deimos kept escaping from the agoge. It was only Brasidas’ current status and Deimos’ own uncertain one as a stateless child that had spared Deimos more brutal punishment each time he was dragged back. 

“I’m told that I was found when I was a baby,” Deimos said.

“Stolen?” Perhaps Brasidas could make some inquiries. 

Deimos laughed sharply. “No. I was found on a mountain.” 

Ah. Brasidas tried to hide his surprise. Spartan parents often left the children they thought too weak to survive on the slopes of the mountain. Or gave them to childless helots. Perhaps some passer-by had found Deimos. Perhaps he’d been a sickly infant who had recovered with time, despite all odds. Time that Sparta itself had deemed unfit to provide. 

“I’m glad that you were,” Brasidas said. 

Deimos smiled, humourless. “Because I grew up, proving my parents wrong?” 

_Because you survived_ , Brasidas nearly said. Deimos had hardly had a choice about that. While Brasidas recognised the brutal logic behind Sparta’s practices, he sometimes remained surprised that his fellow citizens were as a whole indifferent to the inherent savagery of their lives. Sparta treated its people as weapons, not people. Those seen as flawed were discarded, the way a soldier would discard a spear that was close to breaking. Sentiment was not a Spartan concept, and yet. 

“Because it meant that we could meet,” Brasidas said. He patted Deimos’ head and watched the gash across his mouth waver and thin away into confusion. Deimos had not yet built a defense against kindness. He batted Brasidas’ hand away, but his ugly mood had faded by the time Brasidas got to his feet. Deimos stayed quiet and well-behaved through dinner—he was even nominally polite to the others in the syssitia. 

“That boy does you little credit,” Timocrates said, as Deimos refilled Brasidas’ wine cup. 

“How so?” Brasidas had picked his way through his portion of stew. As a polemarch he was required of late to provide more for the table, and today he’d handed the syssitia a pair of deer. He’d only found Deimos because he’d been out hunting. 

“Timocrates has a point. How many times has he run away from the agoge now?” Bemus said. He glanced at Deimos, who stared coldly back without dropping his eyes. It was Bemus who looked away with a snort. “He’s willful. Likely not of Spartan blood. I recognise he has talent, but there are hundreds of Spartan boys with talent. We want soldiers, not mad dogs. You indulge him.”

“What do you suggest?” Brasidas said. His hand had clenched tight on the wine cup, and it took him a moment to bite down his anger. Anger surprised him. Brasidas grew slowly to fury; he preferred reason and calm. _He’s young_ , he wanted to snap at Bemus. There was no point. No one in the syssitia would understand. Fatherhood was not a sentimental thing for Spartans. They had no right or obligation to raise their own children, let alone the children of others. 

“Give him to a helot family,” Timocrates said, eating a mouthful of stew. “You’ve indulged him enough. Done more than you should. His behaviour doesn’t just reflect badly on you. It reflects on us as well.”

Give Deimos away? Brasidas had never considered that. Not even when the boy had been at his most difficult, in the first few sullen weeks. When he’d run away repeatedly and Brasidas had to make the time to track him down. Timocrates had told him to have the boy flogged, but each time Brasidas would think of the scars he had seen and stay patient. 

“You’re right that it reflects badly on us,” Brasidas said, considering his words with care, “and that is as much my fault as his. If you want to speak of punishment—” 

“No.” Deimos hadn’t spoken loudly, but his voice cut through the chatter in the large tent.

Brasidas turned to rebuke him, but Deimos ignored his pointed stare as he glared at Timocrates and Bemus with blazing eyes. “Be quiet, boy,” Bemus said. 

“What exactly is the problem?” Deimos folded his arms. “The agoge? I have no need for the agoge.” 

“Child,” Timocrates growled, “know your place.” 

“I understand my place. It’s the rest of you who do not.” Deimos looked around the tent. “I’ll show you. The other boys here, I’ll take them all on. All at once. Armed, unarmed, I don’t care.” 

“Deimos,” Brasidas bit out, even as Bemus laughed. 

“Spoken like a Spartan, at least. Eh, Timocrates. No need to look so sour. The boy’s still a boy. We’ll just talk to his eiren tomorrow.” 

Timocrates ignored Bemus. “There are six other boys here,” he told Deimos. “A Spartan would understand his own strength.”

Deimos stared Timocrates unflinchingly in the eye. “It’s the rest of you who don’t understand _me_.” 

Timocrates got to his feet. When Brasidas made as though to rise as well, Bemus grasped his arm. “It’ll do the boy some good, denting that pride of his,” Bemus said. He clapped Brasidas on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll step in before he gets too hurt.” 

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Brasidas said, but it was too late. 

Timocrates clapped his hands sharply. “Everyone under fifteen years. Step outside.” 

“Under twenty-one,” Deimos said, with a sharp curl to his mouth. “Don’t you Spartans only count those from the age of twenty-one to be men?” 

“Under twenty-one,” Timocrates snapped, angry now at being challenged. “Outside.” 

Brasidas grabbed Deimos’ arm before he could head out. Deimos stared at him appraisingly. “What?” 

“Don’t kill anyone,” Brasidas said. He could see what Deimos was, even if everyone else could not. “ _I_ understand you.” 

“I know,” Deimos said, patting his knuckles. “That’s why I like you.” He pulled away, striding out into the field beside the tent. The others were clustered together, confused at the break in routine. They looked toward Timocrates for instruction. Deimos watched Brasidas. 

“All of you, teach this boy a lesson,” Timocrates told the others. As the other boys, slowly understanding, began to spread out and head for Deimos, Brasidas nodded. 

Deimos smiled. He had been standing loose-limbed on the grass. Now he was an arrow, shot straight at the first boy. The boy had a year on his age and was taller, but it mattered little. Deimos pounced on him, bearing him down. The boy’s head bounced off the grass and he went still, unconscious. Deimos sprang into another charge. He dodged the closest boy, making him stumble as he grappled at air. Straight for the boy close to the back of the line, a straggler, grabbing him by the jaw, slamming his skull against a tree. 

Bemus whistled. He was a commander of men who had led hoplites into war, just as Brasidas. He could see what Deimos was doing. Singling out the weakest first, taking them out quickly. Deimos was not fighting like a boy growing into his own strength. He was fighting tactically, perfectly aware of what he could do—and what he couldn’t. He dodged an older boy, spun, kicked off the back of another, fist arcing in the air. Used momentum and the weight of his body to give his punch weight.

When it was down to four, things grew more interesting. Dangerous. The four young men were working together now, trying to corral Deimos and pin him down. Remembering their training. Deimos was still smiling, circling. “We should stop this now,” Brasidas told Timocrates. 

“Why?” Timocrates countered. He was red-faced with both anger and admiration. “He’s better than the younger boys, sure. But these four will teach him a lesson.” 

“There will be blood,” Bemus said softly. So he understood too. Outnumbered in a fight against four stronger opponents—a winning tactic was that of brutality and the sowing of fear. That was the Spartan way. Deimos might claim not to be Spartan, but he understood what it was to fight like a Spartan. 

This time, Deimos charged at the oldest boy. He let himself get taken down in a grapple, rolling them both as they fell. Deimos’ hand flashed over his face. There was a scream as Deimos’ thumb came away bloody, the boy twisting free with his hands clapped over his face. The other boys slowed down, gawking in horror. Deimos closed in on one as they were frozen in shock, headbutting him hard enough to break the boy’s nose. As he rolled clear Deimos came to a crouch beside a stone in the grass, seemingly by accident. Brasidas knew better. The stone hit one of the boys in the head, downing him. 

Then there were one. The last boy roared. He drew the short blade at his hip. Deimos laughed, a ringing sound of joy, a wolf unchained. The sound made the hair prickle over Brasidas’ arms. Deimos drew the blade of the boy he was crouched over. With a sword in his grip, he changed. His mocking air faded, grew focused. The boy charged and Deimos stepped aside. They met blades and it soon became clear that Deimos was toying with him, breaking his guard only to mete a stinging little gash. Bloodying him instead of forcing him to yield. 

“Timocrates,” Brasidas warned. Furious, Timocrates stalked forward, ignoring a futile grab from Bemus. Seeing this, Deimos smiled. He waited until Timocrates drew his own sword before finally disarming the boy with a deft little flick, drawing a pointed gash over his throat that was nearly _too_ deep. Then he stepped clear, beckoning. 

“ _Timocrates!_ ” Brasidas strode over, inserting himself between them. “Enough.” 

“I can take him,” Deimos said behind him. 

“I’ll deal with you later,” Brasidas snapped, without looking around. “Timocrates. Put your sword away. Enough.”

“The child is a mad dog,” Timocrates spat. 

“And he is mine,” Brasidas shot back. He stared evenly at Timocrates until Timocrates shook his head, sheathing his sword roughly and turning away. 

Bemus drifted over. “Good fight,” he told Deimos. “You knew you were going to win.” 

Deimos tossed the sword away. “They’re slow because they’ve been starved. I keep myself fed.” 

Bemus glanced at Brasidas, who shook his head. He kept no food in his house and ate only at the syssitia. If Deimos was feeding himself somehow, it wasn’t by his hand. That was the Spartan way, cruel as it could be. Or practical, if you saw children as weapons in potentia, requiring tempering. 

“I’ll speak to the agoge,” Bemus said. He glanced over his shoulder. “And to the others.”

“Thank you.” Brasidas grabbed Deimos by the shoulder as the boy made as though to walk past him. “We’re going for a walk.” 

Once they were down the slope on their way back to the house, Deimos said, “I would’ve beaten him.”

“I know,” Brasidas said. He had no doubt about that. “He knew you would have.” Timocrates was too good a warrior not to know that. “But he would have hurt you first. Badly.”

Deimos sniffed derisively. “I don’t care about being hurt.” 

“And it would have made trouble for me,” Brasidas said. As he’d hoped, Deimos frowned and nibbled on his lower lip. He winced—his lip had been split in the scuffle. Still. Deimos had come away from the scrum with just bruises and scrapes. 

“I beat the others. Would that have made trouble for you too?” 

“A little trouble,” Brasidas said. This was Sparta, after all. Even the boy who had been partially blinded would remain a soldier. Would take this as a lesson in tactics instead of a lesson in spite. Hopefully. 

Deimos scowled. “Then why did you let me fight?” 

“Because I know what you can do,” Brasidas said, patting Deimos on his shoulder, “and it’s about time that everyone else did too.”

#

“I’m going with you,” Deimos said.

Brasidas paused. He had been packing the few belongings he cared to bring with him on a campaign into a small trunk. The provisions of rye bread, cheese, and salted meat had already been arranged and packed aboard the trireme. “You are, are you?” 

Deimos glowered at him. He leaned against the doorway and folded his arms. “I’m old enough now.” 

Brasidas had used age—barely—to force Deimos not to follow him to his last campaign in Methone. Thankfully Bemus had agreed to try and watch the boy in his absence, but it had been an ordeal for everyone. “You’re still too young.” 

“I’m _seventeen_.”

“Too young.” Brasidas closed and latched his trunk. 

“I’m a better fighter than anyone you’d have under your command. I’m probably better than you.” 

“There’s no ‘probably’ about that,” Brasidas said. He was completely frank with himself about his own abilities. Deimos had been good before, but after years of training with handpicked Spartan champions the boy was difficult to defeat by even the most seasoned Spartan warrior. In his prime, Deimos would be like an incarnation of Ares himself.

One that had to be deployed in the service of Sparta—carefully. “So what’s the problem?” Deimos demanded, belligerent. 

“I’ve told you already, boy. You’re too young. You’re not old enough yet to be considered paidískoi, let alone hēbōntes. You’re due to be selected as part of the krupteía—“

“Spying on the helots and murdering those I see fit?” Deimos scowled. “What’s the point of that?” 

“The point is fear,” Brasidas said, though he hadn’t liked this custom himself. Even as he was a part of it. “Institutionalised cruelty makes it possible for a Spartan to be a Spartan. For Sparta to be Sparta.” 

“I understand that. I don’t see the point of it. Had you never found me, I might have been one of them.” 

Empathy? From _Deimos_? Brasidas looked into the boy’s pitiless eyes. No, not empathy. It was just the same brutal logic that drove Deimos’ life, his blade. The boy had a simplified view of the world that was both humbling and terrifying. “You could decline,” Brasidas said. 

“But that would trouble you.” 

“Not particularly.” It wasn’t as though Deimos was a normal child, having to work his worth through the agoge. He was a once-in-a-lifetime talent. His election to a syssitia would likely be immediate, his eventual ascension to citizenship a given. If only to prevent a warrior of his caliber from falling into Athenian hands. 

Deimos tilted his head. An eagle, thinking. “If you don’t take me with you, I’ll find a way to follow you. I already know where you’re going.” 

Brasidas had been waiting for that threat. “And what would you do?”

A direct question threw Deimos off balance, as Brasidas had been hoping it would. “Fight? By your side.”

“Why?”

Deimos looked openly bewildered. “To help you?” 

“And you think that would help?”

“Why not?” Deimos was growing angry now. “I can fight. Better than any of your men.” 

Brasidas sighed. “Why do we go to war, Deimos?”

“Cnemus’ Acarnanian campaign was a failure, so you’ve been sent—” 

“No. No. Why do we go to war?”

Faced with a serious, intellectual question, Deimos could be patient. Cunning, even. Brasidas appreciated that quality. “To capture strategic positions.” When Brasidas shook his head, Deimos said, facetiously, “Glory?” 

“No.”

“To win?”

“To lose,” Brasidas said. At Deimos’ blink, he sighed and sat down on the trunk. “We have almost no navy, compared to Athens. Half the number of hoplites. We can’t match their resources, we certainly can’t match their number of citizens. We have to rely on allies. Athens does not. Athens has superb cavalry, better bowmen. They have, overall, won far more battles overall than Sparta.” 

“Not grand battles,” Deimos said, though he was thinking this over. “Small ones.”

“Small engagements matter. Often more than the so-called legendary ones. Every war burns resources, casualties, time. Every participant in a war loses something. The question is whether you take fewer acceptable losses than the other side.” 

“That’s…” Deimos hesitated. “That’s not how Pallas put it.” 

Brasidas grimaced. He hadn’t liked Pallas—or his reputation. The Spartan champion was bloodthirsty, and there was something unsettlingly fanatical about the way he talked to Deimos. Still, he’d been one of a few people who hadn’t been put off by Deimos’ fast-growing reputation as an unmanageable student, and he’d been recommended by Bemus. “I can guess how he put it.”

“He told me that killing is the sweetest thing there is.” 

“Some men do love killing,” Brasidas said. It wasn’t uncommon in Sparta.

“You don’t,” Deimos guessed.

“No. It’s usually a waste. Sometimes that’s necessary. Often it isn’t. You say you want to go to war to help me. Your presence would do the opposite. The others will say, Brasidas can’t even command a child, how can he command hoplites? The men under my command will lose morale and Cnemus will lose any respect he might have for me.” 

“You could _die_ ,” Deimos burst out. “You nearly did. The last time.” 

“That’s an occupational hazard,” Brasidas said, though his amusement faded at Deimos’ furious stare. “Even if I were to die, you’d still be cared for.” 

“I don’t care about that. I care about _you_. You’re the only thing in the world that I care about.” 

Brasidas stared, taken aback by the fierceness in Deimos’ tone. Deimos glared back at him, unshaken. Finally, Brasidas said, “That will change when you are older.” 

“We’ll see.” 

“Then we’ll talk about it when I return,” Brasidas said. In a culture built to worship the strong, he’d seen boys revere older officers, those with laurels and deeds to their name. This didn’t look similar. An early act of kindness had cleaved Deimos to Brasidas and to a life that Deimos was at best indifferent to. Age and time would wean him of both.

#

“You should be training,” Brasidas said. His fever had broken several days after his return to Sparta. Bedridden as he was for now, the doctors had assured him that he would be fighting fit again within weeks.

Deimos pressed his mouth into a thin line. “I don’t care about that.” Their years apart had changed Deimos from a gangly boy into a tall young man, handsome and sleekly built. Strangely enough, he didn’t wear his hair in any of the acceptable Spartan styles but in thick, loose locks bound with tiny beads. It suited him.

“You should. You’re old enough to be considered for the hippeis.” Each year the hippagretai picked 300 hoplites to be the kings’ personal guard, an appointment awarded only to the very best. There was no question that Deimos was among the best. Whether he would be selected given his notoriety remained to be seen. “It’s a high honour.” 

“I don’t care about that.” 

Getting angry with Deimos never helped. “Why?” 

“Being part of the hippeis would mean that I’d only be deployed into war if one of the kings goes to war. I don’t care about them. I care about you.” 

Brasidas massaged his temple. “The question of national security and personal security is one and the same.”

“Not to me.” Deimos raked an angry stare over Brasidas’ bandaged form. “I’m not too young for war any longer, am I? I’m going with you on your next campaign.” 

“You’ve been elected to a syssitia?” 

“Pallas said he’d talked to his and I could join them, but I declined. Bemus said he’d raise it with yours. Given what happened at Pylos.”

Timocrates hadn’t survived Pylos, leaving an open slot. “I see,” Brasidas said.

“You’re not happy about that?”

“I’m neither unhappy nor happy.” Brasidas shook his head. “Declining a spot in a syssitia when it was _Pallas_ who invited you? I’m surprised he wasn’t offended.” 

“He laughed. Even if he was offended, I wouldn’t care. I don’t like him.” 

That was news to Brasidas. “Oh?”

“He doesn’t like you. He’s never said so outright, but I can tell. He keeps telling me that I’d do better with him and his friends. That I should go on campaigns with them.” Deimos made a face.

“Spartans don’t exist to be liked,” Brasidas said, though he smiled. 

“Pallas said that’s why you’re not really a Spartan. That you like to be liked. That it’s why you prefer to talk to city-states rather than intimidate them into submission.” 

“It’s not generally the Spartan way, no.” Brasidas was always more amused by this attitude than offended. 

“I like _you_ ,” Deimos muttered.

“I don’t try to be liked for my sake, but Sparta’s,” Brasidas pointed out, “and that’s the way it should be. A Spartan should be above personal attachments.” 

“Thankfully, I’m not Spartan,” Deimos said. He leaned in swiftly. Before Brasidas could react, Deimos kissed him hard on the mouth. It was a bruising close-mouthed kiss, one that left its imprint against Brasidas’ teeth. Deimos drew back, smirking at Brasidas’ shock. “Years ago you said I was yours.”

“I didn’t mean it like this,” Brasidas said, though his shallow breathing betrayed him. It wasn’t Deimos’ raw beauty that unmoored him but something more, something much less mortal. He had been partly right. Deimos grown into his prime wasn’t just akin to a God. He _was_ one, somehow. This had to be what mortals felt in the presence of the divine, this frustrated helpless awe. 

“Now you’re mine too,” Deimos said, as though he knew. He smiled, slipping a hand up Brasidas’ thigh, clasping him loosely over his loincloth. Brasidas gasped. He didn’t pull away, didn’t rebuke Deimos for the presumption. Against reason, despite duty, Brasidas pulled Deimos closer, teaching him how to kiss.

#

Korinth was cold, and it had rained on and off all week. The roads were muddy and the Athenians were rumoured to be preparing for an attack on Megaris. The mercenary leaders Brasidas was in Korinth to find were proving annoyingly elusive. He stood in a recently abandoned house, poking around for clues. Tried to be patient. Brasidas might not have been assigned any hoplites for his current project but that didn’t mean that it was impossible.

Any hoplites other than the one who was now his shadow, in any case. As Brasidas bent down to open a chest in the house, hands curled over his hips and pulled him back against an unmoving bulk when he flinched. 

“I’ve told you to stop doing that,” Brasidas said. The rebuke was halfhearted. Deimos nuzzled his throat, curling an arm around his waist. “Find anything?” 

“Some farmers saw a dozen armed men walking towards the Kraneion Plains a few days ago.” People often seemed to feel the need to be helpful around Deimos, even when he was in one of his moods. 

“I’m looking to muster far more than a dozen men.”

“One of them had a pet lion, apparently. Big jeweled collar.” 

That was more like it. “Sounds like General Erastos.” Brasidas tried to pull free of Deimos’ grip and frowned as Deimos pushed him against a wall. “Deimos.” 

“We’ve already found them and they have a lead on us. It’s nearly nightfall,” Deimos said, rubbing his cheek against Brasidas’ shoulder. “We should rest.”

“You’re looking to rest, are you?” Brasidas couldn’t help chuckling. That was the problem with Deimos. He skewed perception around him, warped the world itself. Often it felt easier to bend to his will. 

“Among other things,” Deimos said, licking his lips. He kissed Brasidas eagerly when Brasidas started to laugh. They stumbled against the wall, falling in a tangle of limbs against the old cot in the far corner. Deimos started working on removing their armour as he kissed, purring as Brasidas offered minimal help, stroking his hands over Deimos’ powerful arms, the curve of his muscular back. 

Deimos cursed as Brasidas marked bites down his chest and kneaded his firm ass, his hands slippery with oil from a pouch and eager between his own thighs. He moaned Brasidas’ name as he settled down over Brasidas’ lap. Brasidas swore. He let Deimos ride him for a spell, enduring his teasing smirks and the lazy roll of his hips for as long as he could. Deimos laughed when Brasidas swarmed up and shoved him against the wall, hitching up his thighs and bracing his weight. Brasidas fucked him roughly against the stone as Deimos clenched down, bit him, and demanded more. Always demanding more.

#

“What did you think of her?” Brasidas asked, when Deimos returned and settled down beside him at the fire.

“She said she’d met you before. In Korinth.” 

Brasidas nodded. “Before I earned my first laurels. I was investigating a man known as the Monger. Kassandra is one of the most impressive people I’ve ever met.” 

Deimos scowled at him. “I don’t see what’s so interesting about her,” he said, openly jealous. Brasidas sniffed and smacked his shoulder. 

“I didn’t mean it that way. She’s very much like you. Perhaps I should have known.” Just like Deimos, Kassandra fought like she was god-touched. “I know Myrrine. Your mother. I… we thought you long dead.”

“So much for her,” Deimos said, contemptuous. 

“Alexios. That was your name.” Brasidas knew the tale. How could he not? Everyone in Sparta knew. How the apparent deaths of both her children had driven the last descendant of House Agiad to madness and self-exile. 

“It _was_.” 

“You’re part of House Agiad. One of the two royal Spartan bloodlines.” That was difficult to parse. Even though Brasidas probably should have figured that out as well. He’d met Nikolaos before, though they weren’t friends. Not like he was with Myrrine. He should have seen the resemblance. 

“I don’t care about that.” Deimos hauled him close, burying his mouth in Brasidas’ neck. Breathing. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” 

“Regret anything.” 

“Regret is a pointless emotion,” Brasidas said. He rubbed his palm against Deimos’ spine, and Deimos melted against him. “You should talk to Myrrine. She _is_ your mother.” 

“We’ll see.” Deimos pressed kisses against Brasidas’ skin and sighed as Brasidas pulled back. “I knew this would happen. You’d tell me to go be with my family. You’d pull away, making your excuses.” 

“You’re a man grown.” Brasidas patted Deimos’ knee. “You’re free to do what you like.” 

“But you want me to try. To be patient with them.” 

“Only if you wish. The family you’re born to isn’t that important for a Spartan. Not like the family you make,” Brasidas said. That was true and untrue. True for people like Brasidas, for most Spartans. Untrue for people like Deimos, who was of the blood of kings. Limited as the kings were, they were symbols, and symbols had power. Deimos rumbled something Brasidas didn’t catch.

“I’ll try,” Deimos conceded. “For you.” He leaned his cheek against Brasidas’ cloaked shoulder, closing his eyes. “Don’t leave me. I won’t let you.” 

“How could I? I need you,” Brasidas said. It was not a Spartan thing to say, but under Deimos’ influence, it was easy to lean towards heresy. Deimos’ mouth curled into a wolfish snarl of pleasure. Brasidas kissed Deimos over it until Deimos growled, and let Deimos push him down onto the grass.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: @manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent.tumblr.com  
> \--  
> Timeline wise: Kass born 453BC, Alexios!Deimos born 446BC. 
> 
> Apparently, Brasidas first meets Kass in 431BC. Brasidas was an ephor for a year in 430BC, which meant he’d have been 30+ at the time and no longer had to live in the barracks. https://studylib.net/doc/7457373/2.2and2.3-the-role-and-privileges-of-the-spartan-kings.
> 
> https://www.history.com/topics/ancient-history/sparta  
> https://www.nationalgeographic.com/archaeology-and-history/magazine/2016/11-12/sparta-military-greek-civilization/  
> http://www.classics.upenn.edu/myth/php/tools/dictionary.php?regexp=SYSSITIA&method=standard  
> https://warfarehistorynetwork.com/daily/military-history/sparta-versus-athens/


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